


Tardus Semita

by jcd1013 (redheadgleek)



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 05:39:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3798796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redheadgleek/pseuds/jcd1013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Living the slow path means facing the fact that someday, he'll lose her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tardus Semita

_Humans decay. You wither and you die. Imagine watching that happen to someone you… ~ Doctor Who, School Reunion_

She's twenty-five when her family convinces her that she needs a holiday. "You're overworked," they argue, "We haven't spent any time together as a family in years." She protests, but her mom's stubbornness has grown stronger over the years and when Lily begins pleading too, she gives in. She's never been able to refuse her sister anything, which is how she finds herself on a beach in Blackpool, England on a warm, balmy day, Zeppelins floating in the blue sky.

She's drowsing in the heat when she first hears the sound, a low hum that frequents her dreams. Squinting in the bright sun, she hasn't quite decided whether or not she imagined the noise when she sees the TARDIS materialize, spitting out a man into the water before crashing in the soft sand. The sunbathers stare in astonishment, but she's already racing for the bobbing shape of an irate Time Lord.

She's twenty-five when he slides the ring on her finger. The first days after their reunion are a whirlwind of new planets and new people, speckled with visits to the sights of their first adventures. He takes her back to New New (she chants over his voice the fourteen "New"s) York and for once there are no scary cat women experimenting on patients or people stuck in polluted tunnels for years, but a thriving, busy planet, populated with productive cities and mostly content citizens. "Humans," the Doctor croons in satisfaction. "You never give up!"

He shows her the places he saw in her absence. They visit the monument erected to the memory of the Face of Boe, she wipes away streaming tears, and his hand clasps hers, just like old. He attempts to hunt down Novice Hame, but she too has died, a much quieter death, no laud given to her memory. There are moments of happiness as well; he takes her to meet Brannigan and Valerie and their grandkittens and spend the evening, reminiscing about years of yore, before winding their way back to the TARDIS.

They're standing outside the ship, gazing at the stars, the Doctor pointing out this planet's constellations, when she feels pressure on her right index finger and lifts it to find the flat ring. It's warm and dark, unremarkable except for the faint colors twisting in its depth, reminding her of the space in the Vortex. He beams when she mentions the analogy. "It is! It's just a piece of it, a tiny little spark. The last bit of Gallifrey, that is. Well, besides me and the TARDIS. But I couldn't fit us into a piece of jewelry. Well, I could have, but there would have been a lot more soldering and sparks and it really could have been quite dangerous. Instead, Gallifry dust."

There's something like tears forming in her eyes. "You're giving me Gallifrey?"

He scratches his ear. She loves that even after all of that time away, she still knows his nervous habits. "I can't give you eternity. This ring, it won't make you live forever, it just looks pretty. You're going to leave me eventually, it's the truth of it and nothing I can do would change that. But, uh, I want you to spend your life, every moment of it, with me, even when you're old and I'm not—old-looking, rather, I'll always be older than you and—"

She launches herself at him, throwing her arms tight around his neck. "You daft alien. As if I'm going to let you drop me off in Aberdeen when I get a few wrinkles."

He kisses the crown of her head. "Nah," he drawls, nestling her to his collarbone, "just thought you might get tired of this mug after a few years."

"Never," she whispers, and they linger there, oblivious of the cars flying overhead.

She's thirty-nine when the Doctor stops celebrating her birthday. Until then, he's been amazing at remembering the date. Even in the swirling Time Vortex, where she has no idea when or where they are, he always seems to know when that particular anniversary occurs in the corresponding Earth time. And while anything is a good excuse for celebrating (clean socks once warranted a visit to Egypt and fresh-baked cookies), he takes a special delight in planning out a crazy adventure for her day and tries hard to avoid getting into trouble. Half the time he succeeds. For her 27th, he surprised her with a trip to Blackpool, where he submitted their names for the Amateur Ballroom Dance Festival and they tangoed their way to a respectable third place finish. Her 30th involved a mud bath with Cleopatra. And for her 36th, he surprised her with a visit to the galaxy's largest shopping center, carried her ever-growing bags, and even rubbed her tired feet at the end of the day.

But on her 39th, he tells her simply that he can't do it anymore. "You're getting older, Rose."

She can't resist egging him. "Oi! Thanks for the reminder. Thought I was imagining the gray hairs and the fact that I'm getting my mum's chin."

He doesn't respond to her teasing, a pensive look on his face as he stares at the console. She tries again, more seriously, "I was almost this old yesterday, Doctor. It didn't seem to bother you then."

"You're getting older," he repeats, and holds up a hand when she attempts to reply, "and I'm not. Three hundred and sixty-four days of the year we elude time here in the TARDIS, but that doesn't prevent it from affecting you. Then one day a year comes this nasty reminder that I'm going to…"

Lose me. The words remain unspoken, but she understands and she suddenly feels the swift passing of time. She clings tighter to him for the next while, until the fear lessens, for life is too full to worry about distant uncertainties.

She's fifty-two when he regenerates. Saving her again, which makes her insides clench in guilt. This time, he pushes her aside when a Klitktra attacks, its knife-like projection slicing through his abdomen. He manages to kill it before collapsing on her, the golden light surrounding him as before. She's older now and more experienced, so she doesn't feel quite as lost and betrayed as she did the first time, but it's an adjustment. This Doctor is older, gray streaked liberally throughout his not-quite-ginger hair, and she can't help giggling at the thought that if her mother was still around she'd be trying to trap the Doctor in a closet with her. Not that she tells the Doctor this—his fear of Jackie transcends both regeneration and dimension. He still adores chips with vinegar and still has a Londoner accent and an acerbic sense of humor, which sometimes goes over her head.

There had been times when she wondered if he was getting tired of her. At first they took other companions on board—Jack joined them more than once and remained an incorrigible flirt—but for most of the last twenty-some-odd years, it had just been the two of them. And while he'd sworn that he wanted to spend her life together, that was when she was young and romantic.

After the regeneration, she stops worrying, when she realizes that he changed to reflect her, her influence on him imprinting his very DNA.

She's sixty-seven when she first feels that she's getting old. Not just older. Old. The gray hairs had been there for years, but those never seem to belong to her, Rose Tyler, Defender of the Universe. Not when she and the Doctor were laughing hysterically about upsetting the Queen of Sheba, just as they've laughed over all of their adventures. And running for their lives for 40 years straight has certainly kept her fit and athletic. She could ignore the swelling of her knuckles and the darkening spots of her skin, because really, she could probably out-jog most women half her age.

And then suddenly she's sixty-seven, running with the doctor, and she feels the creaks in her knees, the sharp ache in her hip and spine, and the gnarled skin of her fingers curled around his and she feels suddenly cold from that gust of death.

It's only later that she realizes that the Doctor has felt the change too; when the trips to the universe's action spots peter out and the TARDIS stops more often at purple beaches and quiet stars. She thinks about questioning him, teasing him that he's domesticating after all. But there's a sadness in his eyes now, and she is tired, oh so tired, and she likes this kind of life too.

She's seventy-nine when she has her first stroke. She first notices her slurred speech and then the way she suddenly can't swallow and everything feels heavy. The sonic screwdriver is at her temple before she can even process what's gone wrong. The heavy feeling lifts and she is able to squeeze the hand that is tightly clenching hers. She bursts into loud, noisy sobs, faced with the certainty of her impending death and separation from her life, her everything.

She recovers, the only remnant a slight droop to her lip and an occasional slurred word (she can't say Raxacoricofallapatorius anymore, even though she keeps trying). The sonic screwdriver isn't magic, however, and it can't cure mortality.

She's ninety-six when time runs out on them.

"I'm sorry," she rasps. He hasn't left her side in three days, as her breath becomes shorter and more labored… and he hasn't met her eyes in those days either. He's busy, too busy fussing around her, unable to stop moving, a constant trait in every regeneration. She has spent more than seventy years with him, and knows his every habit and nervous tick, so she lets him be. But she's been struggling to remain conscious for the last few hours and she knows that her grasp on life is weakening.

"What's that?" He leans in closer, sitting on the bed beside her. Her fingers seek out his hand and something within her tightens at the thought that this is the last time she'll feel his familiar embrace.

"I promised I'd never leave you."

His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "We both knew that wasn't a promise you could keep, love."

"Will I ever see you again?"

He closes his eyes, his fingers still stroking hers. "I… It's impossible, Rose."

"We don't believe in impossible," she gently chides him. "Not anymore."

"There isn't an afterlife, Rose. We die, we cease to be."

She smiles fondly at him. "Silly boy. For all we know, death is just a passage into another dimension, another path into an unknown universe. You're the one who said that there are no absolutes. I'm not letting you doubt that now.

"Find me, Doctor. Promise me that you'll try to find me again. You'll go on with this fantastic life and then, when it's over, you'll find me."

He's never been able to deny her anything. As the last breath leaves her body, she holds on to his promise like a tether to his soul.

He's two thousand and fifteen in Earth years when he runs out of regenerations. As he lies dying, grieving the death of his race who for ill or naught had impacted the course of time, his thoughts turn to Rose, the lithe human girl who had been his companion and more. More than a thousand years have passed since she came into his life, and he still misses her, even after all of this time. He thinks back fondly to when he finally found his way back to her, the giddy joy at having achieved the impossible.

Of course, when he had finally squeezed through the tiny little slit to Pete's World, he had bungled the landing and the TARDIS had dumped him unceremoniously into the ocean. Sputtering, he'd swum to shore, ready to whack the TARDIS for its uncharacteristic behavior. Until he realized that Rose and her family just happened to be holidaying on that little stretch of beach and she was swimming out to meet him, tears mingling with sea salt.

"How long will you stay with me?" He grinned at her, cradled in his arms.

She grinned back. "Forever and ever and ever!" she chanted as he swung her around making whirlpools, clutching her tight.

His eyes closing, darkness growing behind his eyes, he thinks that forever and ever sounds just about right.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Anywhere But Cardiff ficathon in 2007 (before Journey's End and long before the Matt Smith era). My prompt was: Blackpool, England, 21st century, which turned into a rather "blink and you'll miss it" mention.


End file.
